


between the lines

by versigny



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: ??? sort of maybe?!?! idk i think i write it without thinking sometimes hehehe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Face-Sitting, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Oral Sex, Pianist Seo Youngho | Johnny, Propositions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-11-12 12:22:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18010817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/versigny/pseuds/versigny
Summary: “I am aware that what I am saying is uncouth, unconventional, and–”“Illegal. Everywhere. For a lot of reasons.”“–yes, sure, I will not deny you those… those things. Yes, illegal. But my plea is sincere.”





	between the lines

“I am aware that what I am saying is uncouth, unconventional, and–”

“Illegal. Everywhere. For a lot of reasons.”

“–yes, sure, I will not deny you those… those things. Yes, illegal. But my plea is sincere.”

Nothing about this situation has made sense to you yet. Your brain failed, over and over again, to put together why tall, lanky, prestigious Johnny Seo was speaking to you, and speaking about  _the things he was saying_  of all things in the expanded, forsaken universe. This wasn’t what you signed up for. Sincerely. You chose this college because it was supposed to be  _small_  and  _quiet_  and not full of– of parties, and debauchery.

And Johnny Seo, most talented and hard-working and intelligent of them all, was here, before you, coffee in one hand and hair still damp from his rehearsal practice. He smelled clean, though, and masculine, and his eyes were depthless in their breathtakingly determined stare. He did not blink, nor look away.

“Anything, huh?” you finally settle on, feeling small and lame as you gaze back up at him. He’s not even  _that_  tall but– something, something about the way he held himself. It made him seem so much  _taller_. It was frustrating.

Johnny, to his credit, looks almost earnest at your query, but his composed expression remains firmly in place. His smile is impersonal, easy.

“Anything. Money felt like an obvious choice, but I am perfectly amenable to tutoring, or returning any sexual services, purchasing gifts… You name it, I will make it happen to the best of my ability.”

You’re in the middle of thinking about how– how absolutely deranged this all is, how you both need to walk away and reflect on what the fuck just went on, when you open your mouth and undo all of that sweet, succulent mental progress.

“Can I just like, get a rain check, and call it in when I figure out what I need?”

You’ll ask your friend later if maybe your impulse control was due to some planet being in Gatorade or you being a Tauros or whatever. For now, you’re just biting your lip softly and gazing at Johnny with not-wholly-unpleasant uncertainty, feeling warmth crawl up your neck and to your ears.

There’s no hiding it now; he cocks his head to the side, crooked half-smile adorning his inviting mouth, and keeps his hands stuffed in his pockets like he can’t keep them still.

“‘Course, my dear,” he says, and the low note of it is unexpectedly intimate in tone. You find your heart missing a beat or ten and then struggling to catch up again. “Any other questions?”

Your poker faces aren’t as impressive as his. You struggle to maintain a cool, indifferent look, but it’s immediately obliterated by the way your brain rushes to summon the avalanche of doubts and curiousities he’s bestowed upon you in a matter of minutes – starting with very basic ones, such as  _how?_  and  _why?_  and  _what the fuck?_

You stare up at Johnny, and take a deep, steadying breath. Both of you are alone in the music building – it’s late on a Friday night, and everyone is long gone to their dorms to pre-game or unwind. You’re never there, which is what makes the interaction so surreal; you’d only swung by to see if your roommate was around, since she was a flute major and conveniently not answering her phone, and you didn’t exactly have your key on you to get inside your shared room. (She was used to it by now.)

But there had been Johnny, exiting one of the piano rooms with his glasses in his hand as he rubbed his eyes and temples, tired and tall.

Come to think of it, you don’t know why you stopped. You just… saw him, and your heart took pause, and so did you. There’s something captivating about the way he moves, how disarming his stupid face is. It makes him a wonderful pianist; he gestures and moves like he’s having a conversation by way of a waltz with his ivories. You were in the middle of that thought when he saw you.

Life  _does_  move in slow motion sometimes. It happens as he walks towards you; his glasses go back on, and a swath of his dark auburn hair immediately falls over half of it, guarding his expression. Part of you is paranoid, foolishly, like you’ve done something wrong – but no, you’re not five, and this is not disciplinary action. This is Johnny… apparently… wanting to have a conversation with you, for some reason or another.

A door echoes somewhere in the distance; another straggler leaving to go get something to eat, maybe turn in for the night.

“I’ve been thinking,” is what he opens with, his voice perfectly serious but tight, somehow, almost like he’s nervous under these fluorescent lights that keep going out when there’s not enough movement, “lately, that I… I think about you, a lot.” He pauses, collecting his thoughts. When he speaks again, he almost sounds like he’s talking to himself. “It’s almost distracting.”

And he smiles, like it’s some kind of private, inside joke, and you’re sure you’re gaping at him like a fish.

“For the sake of my sanity, I thought I might as well ask and see if you’re interested in me performing oral sex on you. I would be willing to compensate you in any way necessary, alongside the conditions that the event is not recorded and that you agree to communicate any needs and concerns to me without hesitation. None of my desires involve an unwilling participant.”

 _Any other questions?_  Rings through your head again, and you realize you’re just gawking, still, in the present. His question remains unanswered, but his request is on the precipice of acceptance and you are scarcely wrapping your head around the implications of that, too preoccupied with how your heart is stumbling around and your insides are twisting just right–

“What’s your GPA?”

“4.0.” He doesn’t miss a beat.

“How do you do it?”

“Adderall.” Completely serious. You give him a vague, disbelieving look, and he shrugs. “Adderall. Lots of it. And coffee, and sometimes energy drinks. But mostly Adderall.”

You chew on that information thoughtfully; interesting. It is a little heartening to know the brightest music major the program has seen in a few decades is getting by on drugs like the rest of the world.

Then, a question bubbles up in your heart that leaves you a little flushed, lungs a little shaky.

“How, um,” you swallow thickly, twisting a stray strand of your hair and averting your gaze to some poster on the wall covered in designated sign-up hours, “how long exactly have you… thought of me… like this?”

It’s a long minute before you can bring yourself to try looking at him again. He doesn’t speak in the whole interim, and you’re too flustered to break the silence – and then you turn your head, and realize there’s a faint touch of red to his cheeks and neck and ears and his hand is touched to his face in mild embarrassment. His eyes don’t betray a thing, though, and finally, rocking you straight to your core, he answers in a mercilessly, unfairly endearing murmur, voice strangled with nerves, “A good bit, I guess.”

All the stupid things girls do when they meet a cute boy suddenly make sense. It is a small miracle that you don’t crush him against the wall and  _kiss him_.

–

Johnny Seo lives in one of the small blue apartments by the pond; it’s just on the cusp of campus, and newly-built. Most of the residents come from well-off families, and Johnny is probably no different.

All traces of shame have abandoned him now, though, and he’s back to being the extremely unattainable (question mark?) pianist poster child. Kind of.

There were students that neatly fit into categories, of course – lots of kids were obviously Greek life in a way that sticks out like a sore thumb. The straight-laced, academic ones had a certain shine to them, too, as did the colony of business majors all in collared shirts on long boards.

As far as you’d known, Johnny did not fit neatly. 

He was part of the music honors frat that you couldn’t remember the name of. Certainly an academic, but not strait-laced – he’d had girlfriends, sort of? But he didn’t party, as far as you knew, but he still somehow knew half the student body. Not that you went to a  _big_ school, but it was still an accomplishment.

And he’s so unfairly hot you wish you could lop a few inches of his height and shave his head so he’d  _stop_ , but it’s fruitless. You’re at his door, he’s unlocking it, and you are stepping into his sparse, detonated living quarters.

You barely have time to laugh – his place is a certified  _wreck_. Clothes everywhere, papers strewn, sink full. And the mess, despite its tenacity, is  _endearing_  and it all makes so much more sense, you cover your mouth to hide how big you’re smiling and he just doesn’t say a single word. It might be foolish, but judging from the way his posture is even straighter and he won’t make eye contact with you, you think he might be just a little self-conscious.

The steady swell of lust simmering in your belly subsides, just for a second, and it’s only to surge up into your heart and leave butterflies there instead.

Uh-oh.

“I, uh,” he says, suddenly, “I’m sorry I didn’t get to clean up, before you got here.”

The butterflies double.

You find yourself brushing your hand across his, squeezing very lightly – normal, friendly. Not too much. Not like he’s about to bend you over his bed and eat you out because he’s apparently been fantasizing about it, fixated on you for god knows how long.

“It’s really okay,” you smile, and you mean it. “I understand.”

He’s opening his door and the nerves are back in full-force; he misses the knob on his first try and winces as his knuckles hit the door before looking sheepish and gesturing you in. His room’s a disaster, too, but his bed is completely devoid of any of it, sheets freshly washed and clean, crisp.

“I actually spent like… weeks trying to figure out how to ask you,” he says, dropping his backpack in an unceremonious heap. He seems too shy to look at you again, and it’s a wonder that you’re still functional enough to maintain conversation. The adrenaline is at an all-time high alongside the butterfly count and disbelief, again, that this is fucking  _happening_ , and then his glasses come off and everything is immediately present and real. You’re entranced by how he sets them down. The only light in his room is the moon through is shut blinds and the glow of the lamps on the street side, and–

“What were your game plans?” You asked, barely a whisper, afraid to break the quiet, hot tension of the room.

Johnny pauses, and he finally turns toward you.

Something unspoken passes in the air. Maybe he’s finally figured it out – that you’re smitten and not hiding it well, that you are so much more interested in this than you wanted to admit, or maybe he’s biting the inside of his cheek in an effort to not get stage fright, alone in his room with a random bio major girl he’s had a class or two with over the years. And shared some friends with. And maybe had a few group study sessions with, and talked sometimes, and it was always pretty nice, if not strange. Maybe he figured out that your doubts arose from questions of  _his_  true intentions, and were nothing to do with your own wants.

Johnny has every intention of proving his intentions as clearly, intensely, and pleasurably as possible.

“I thought about class, first. Me under your desk. But then it turned into asking you to wait a minute after release, pretending I had homework questions, and then…” A few steps toward you are taken, and naturally, you gravitate away to allow him room. And that pushes you right to the edge of his nice, tidy bed that smells like him so  _richly_  you can barely think right, and you dumbly sit down so he’s just  _towering_ over you with a soft, dangerous smile and a strong, nimble hand that settles its fingertips right over your heart, and then press you backwards. “…I bend you back over the desk, like this.”

He doesn’t crawl over you just yet – he lets you lay there, and his fingers drift down your front to your hips. He’s not forceful at all, and you know in your marrow, safely, that you could panic or pull back at any time and he’d be very respectful of that. He just  _wants_  you, in the right, good sense of the word.

Johnny’s voice is straining to maintain volume as it descends into his confessing purr. “I pull your jeans off,” he says, and he does – unbuttoning, unzipping, and your breath catches, your own hands not sure what to do with themselves, “and your panties,” his thumbs stroke over the hem of lace that sits under your belly, eyes the cute print on the cotton. You shift, and it’s the first time you realize how utterly soaked you are, your pussy slipping against your underwear and  _god_ , if he can  _smell_ you – if he can  _see_  how wet you are already, with no contact – you’ll die on the spot and it will be more mortifying than what happened to Elvis, no questions asked. “And then I kneel down, and put my mouth on your pussy.”

Johnny loops his arms under your thighs, and without a lick of effort, scoops you up and over onto his mattress properly, putting himself snugly between your legs. Your thighs are clamped together as soon as possible, face hot, and Johnny just laughs, prying them apart sweetly and drumming out a playful pattern on your bare knees.  _Fuck_ , you shaved this morning, right? Right–?

“Promise you’ll tell me if you need anything?”

You’re going to die if he doesn’t touch you. “Y-yes, promise, I promise–”

“Good.”

Johnny drags his nails down your sides, soft and taunting, as he slides off your underwear, folds them neatly to the side, and then leans in.

The first few seconds are always the hurdle. His mouth presses to your exposed pussy, his hands warm and firm around your thighs to hold you open and in place, and the burst of sensation and pleasure is so much that it practically tickles and you forget how to breathe, sucking in a keening gasp as your hands grab at anything they can find. Sheets, pillows – hair, his  _hair_ , and Johnny is smiling against you with a deep hum, his tongue coming in soft, reverent laps as he works you up and indulges.

Then his tongue goes in.

You’re so embarrassed, so rent from arousal alone and meekness and  _shock_  that he was this invested in eating pussy, that you screw your eyes shut and your teeth sink into your bottom lip and you strangle down a long moan of his name. Nothing had ever  _felt_  like this before. Johnny acts with insistence and patience all at once, careful not to push you too far – but he’s still getting  _exactly_  what he wants from you, every intoxicating ounce of it. The noises he makes are borderline depraved, but the things he does with his mouth only make those sounds because of  _your_  juices, practically flooding his tongue like nectar, and you can’t restrain the whimper a few octaves too high that comes out of you at it all.

“Good?” he asks, and you watch raptly, lips parted in silence, as he licks a stripe up you that ends in a string of drool and cum and god, holy hell, he isn’t real, he has to be some kind of fucking porn star incubus and you just missed the memo–

He’s still waiting, one brow perked mockingly as he waits for your clearly-delayed response. You feel the blood rush to your face and cover it, nodding furiously: Yes, Mr. Seo, you are  _quite good_ , thank you very much.

Johnny resumes his ministrations with renewed determination.

It’s almost cruel, the way he unravels you bit by bit; if you are the piano, he is conducting a long, strenuous piece, and taking it movement by movement. His fingers always twine up and down the skin of your legs, stroking, keeping you distracted. Then, sharply, your attention will be drawn back to how his breaths come, labored and thick, against your curls. Then he fucks you with his tongue. Then you buck up, into his mouth, and muffle you cries into a pillow that you cram against your face because you’re going to  _explode_  and he hasn’t even gotten to your  _clit_  yet. And just as you’re ready to grab his hair again and force him to give you what you want, he eases off, goes back to those long, drawn-out trails he leaves with the flat of his wet, expert tongue.

He’s savouring you, and you’re beginning to worry he might have just set the bar so high for oral that you’ll never be able to be intimate with anyone ever again.

And then he pulls back, twists onto his side, and rolls you with him.

“Attagirl,” he hums, though he sounds a bit out of breath and even that makes your heart writhe in that good way, punctuated by how  _hot_ he was. God. “Sit up, now.”

Oh. Oh!  _OH_.

It’s disorienting, at first, and the room spins with its whitewashed walls and the quiet rotation of his electric fan. You’re clutching the faded wood of his headboard, and given about ten seconds to adjust and process the shift in position as he breathes you in obscenely and sighs out with pleasure. You might have a heart attack at this rate, but you want to cum  _so badly_  and hope at least that happens first–

“Remember,” he says, stern and tender all at once, “talk to me. If you need anything. Still good?”

“Fantastic,” you croak out immediately, your mind finally putting together puzzle pieces that yeah, you were sitting on his face, because yeah, he put you there. Wanted you there. Wanted to eat you out like  _this_.

Johnny’s lips wrap around your clit in a long, slow suck, and you buckle.

There is no letting up. Somewhere in the haze of almost-too-much-stimulation that’s forcing you hard and fast to the edge you’d been yearning for, you parse that maybe this was part of the deal, and the first position was for  _him_ , so he could access you as freely as you wanted, make you open and available for his hunger. This, however, with you on top but still held by one lithe, hardened arm? Your body inadvertently rocking against him as he torments your most sensitive nerves?

He didn’t just  _want_  you to cum, he wanted to  _make_  you cum.

“J-Johnny,” you warble, finally at the end of your rope. Your blood is thrumming in time with your pleasure-hazed thoughts, no end and no beginning as white hot bliss begins creeping with rapid speed up and down every line of your body, all culminating at your poor, desperate cunt. “John _nyyy_ johnnyjohnnyIcan’t’mgonna–”

He literally  _moans_  into you, his eyes fluttering shut with his own sudden impact of arousal, captivated by every sound and move you make for him. You have to choose, and quickly, between letting him do what he wants and you jutting your hips  _just so_ to get you there, and you bite you lip hard and squeeze your eyes shut and decide to take the second route. Tentative, with shaky, wanton hands, you reach down and take handfuls of his hair carefully, trying to lean your weight off of him as you grind down, almost there–

And he wraps his arms around you, pulls you down, groans louder, with urgency, communicating a demand for you to  _take what you fucking needed_  and you splutter and half-scream and then everything explodes into stars. Your orgasm rocks through you at a level you’ve never experienced in your life, and keeps going, on and on, coaxed by his patient tongue and the way he melts under you like the happiest man on earth. Every time you think you can’t take a second more, he gives you a moment to recover, then goes right back to his gentle, insistent laving, enjoying the last succor he could get.

When he accepts that your body has more than earned its merits, he runs his hands up your back – it’s so strange how you can feel the strength and precision in each finger, every trained muscle – and urges you to drop your weight back. You acquiesce, hardly able to protest a thing anyway; your belly is still clenching in soft, meager squeezes around nothing and your lungs aren’t quite working right yet, and it feels so  _good_  to just let him cradle you, hold you like this. This time, laid back on his bed, he smooths your hair out of your face and reaches for wet wipes and tissues.

“Mind if I clean you up?” He asks, polite. It’s not weird at all, actually – it’s just… sweet. So sweet you almost want to tear up a little, but swallow that down and just nod with a dumb, abashed smile, and don’t think about the disaster his place is, and yet he wants to clean you up.

Johnny, with all the care in the world, is not too rough, and not afraid to touch you this way, either. And when he’s done, he lays beside you, drapes an arm over your waist, and pulls you in close with a contented sigh.

 _Feel better?_  is what you want to ask – taunting and lighthearted. A sinking feeling in you doesn’t want him to feel better, secretly though. Feeling better means this is really never going to happen again.

Instead, you curl up closer to him, ass pressed shamelessly to the unyielding shape of his erection, the cradle of his own hips, his mouth resting against your hair by your ear, and take a deep, trembling breath.

“Is it–” You stop, and take another breath instead, trying to fight down the heat in your cheeks and just… say the stupid thing. “Would… Could…?”

The words won’t come out right. But he’s laughing, you can tell from how his chest rumbles behind you, against your shoulders, and he squeezes you in his arms tighter.

“Yeah?” He drawls, voice thick with his own half-met desire, but there’s no urgency; he really meant it when he said the deal was just eating you out. Sex was not an obligation here, which of course only made you want  _him more_ , and–

“C-can we go… on a d-date? Or something? N-not now, I mean, but uh– I mean, god–  _fuck_ , I messed this up. I didn’t, I don’t, I just–”

Johnny’s hand finds your too-warm cheek and turns your head to face him. His mouth seals across yours, still damp and swollen from his performance, and smells like that sweet, tangy cream that is  _you_  and the kiss is so deep and hot and  _good_  and you kiss him back with as much as you can until both of you need air and are forced to break away.

“Please,” is all he says. Distantly, you hear the faint vibrations of your phone going off; it’s probably your roommate wondering where you are, but you can worry about that later.

Johnny kisses you again, slower this time, and his fingertips tap out something against your hair that you think might just be music.


End file.
